That is not as bad, sample this; as a man under the RR rules I wake up at the crack of dawn, cook breakfast for the entire family, do some laundry and then drag my feet to the office where I wear my miserable fingers to the bone on the keyboard.
RR refers to reversed roles phenomena – the man takes the roles of the woman and vice versa. The woman becomes the head of the house, the professional husband beater and the man becomes the complaining homemaker. Such a man I have become – the breed of men known in Uswaz as “Bushoke”. In case you do not know who a Bushoke is, let me clear the air for you – he’s a man fed with an overdose of limbwata (love potion) that literally converts him to a zombie. None of the male species would like to reverse roles with their spouses, but trends have placed me thus. Lately, I have been attending the chores that were exclusively Bisho Ntongo’s such cooking, washing and tending to other family whims. As you all know, men are becoming weaker sex in that they have quietly been suffering battering from their wives. Apparently, there is no self respecting gentleman including me, who would not flinch at the thought that other men are talking over a bottle of beer, of how I was clobbered by my-one-and-only Bisho Ntongo. Imagine, walking into a bar to have a drink with a swollen face, a missing tooth or a black eye and whimpering to the boys that I am a victim of the wrath of a woman scorned. Instead of empathizing with me, they would burst out into guffaws and sniggers. I would become the subject of their evil taunts for months to come.
That is not as bad, sample this; as a man under the RR rules I wake up at the crack of dawn, cook breakfast for the entire family, do some laundry and then drag my feet to the office where I wear my miserable fingers to the bone on the keyboard. That has been happening because RR stipulates it. This goes further; RR dictates that I should never be caught by Bisho Ntongo ogling the women’s derrière especially that of my favourite amiable barmaid Tatu lest my face be converted into pulp.
The same RR thing stipulates that I should submit my entire payslip and all bank cards as soon as my mean boss tosses some measly wages into my bank account. The number of bottles of frothy Ilala drinks that I partake per month must be religiously monitored.
Bodaboda have come to my rescue. Any time I have been given a dog’s beating, there is always an excuse for me. If I saunter at Mzee Shirima’s Bar and Guesthouse limping, with a swollen face and a missing tooth or even a black eye I can always blame it on bodaboda accident. It makes sense. Prior to this, battered men blamed their woes on marauding thugs. Not so anymore!
